ROBAR IV

Robar stood at the edge of a strange, mist-shrouded gate in Sellia, his heart pounding as he stared into the darkened space beyond. The stillness was unnerving, the silence broken only by the occasional distant caws. His grip on his sword was causing his knuckles to go white, as he waited—waiting for something he barely understood. Abere had disappeared in the mist what felt like hours ago, meeting some monstrous force, and now he was alone, left to grapple with the bizarreness of this town..

The mist around the entry seemed alive, whispering secrets he wondered how could he come back?The question circled endlessly in his mind, How could he survive this twisted place alone?

A soft voice broke the silence. "You are waiting, but you do not know for what.".

He turned quickly, sword raised, only to find a woman standing before him. She was slight, with brown hair tinged with a fiery red, her face calm yet marked by a single scarred eye that remained shut. The other eye was open, piercing in its intensity, and she wore a simple cloak that made her seem almost like a peasant. But there was nothing ordinary about her.

"I apologize for startling you," she said gently, her voice soft but firm, like the distant hum of a storm. "Given your unfamiliarity with these lands, I thought it best to inform you. Abere has been felled, but he will return in due time at the site of Grace."

The words struck him like a physical blow. His sword lowered slightly, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean 'felled'? And return? That's not—" He shook his head, his voice rising with disbelief. "That's not how death works. The Stranger claims all. There is no return."

Melina's expression softened, "The laws of your land do not govern here. Death is… fluid. Not an end, but a passage of temperance, it may be long, varied but still life sprouts again root to stem."

His grip on the sword tightened again, though this time more from unease than preparation to strike. "You speak in riddles. Death is death. It cannot be undone. To claim otherwise—it's blasphemy. An affront to the Stranger."

She tilted her head, her single open eye seeming to glint with an emotion he couldn't name, "I know it is difficult to accept, but this is not your homeland. The Erdtrees roots and Elden Ring hold dominion here. Death, while inevitable, does not bind in the way you are accustomed to."

Robar took a step back, eyeing the sky and looking back towards the town they slashed their way through. "This place," he muttered, his voice low, "it feels wrong. Everything about it."

She regarded him quietly. "It is a troubling thing, I suppose. You are far from home, in a land where the rules you've known all your life do not apply. Caelid is one of the worst places for a soul to be lost, a land once beautiful but now corrupted beyond recognition."

He studied her carefully, suspicion warring with curiosity. "You speak as if you've known this land for ages… Who are you, Melina?"

"I am a traveler, much like you," she replied, her tone gentle but firm. "But my path has been longer, and I have seen much of this world's history pass before my eyes. Caelid was not always this desolate. Under the Redmane banner, it once thrived, welcoming those who passed through its borders with the greenest of landscapes. But that was centuries ago."

"Centuries…?" Robar repeated, his voice barely a whisper. He stared at her as the words slowly dawned on him. "You've lived for centuries?"

"Yes Ser Robar…" The surprise mention of his name caused his chest unease. "Time here twists and bends, leaving memory hazy and the rememberances of the past ever-present. The years weigh heavy after a time"

Her words carried an almost lyrical quality, but they only farther unsettle him. A woman who looked no older than himself, claiming to have lived for centuries? It defied all reason, all the laws of nature he had ever known. And yet, here she stood, calm and composed, speaking of eras supposedly long past as if mere months ago.

Melina stepped closer to Robar, her single visible eye drawn to his armor. She moved with poise, circling him slowly as examining the runes and metalwork. Her scrutiny was different from Gowry's—where the old hermit's gaze had felt predatory, hers was scholarly, reminiscent of the Maesters at Runestone poring over ancient texts.

"Your armor," she said softly, reaching out but stopping just short of touching the etched runes. "The craftsmanship is remarkable. These markings... they speak of something ancient, don't they?"

Robar shifted uncomfortably under her examination. "They're runestones of the First Men," he explained, watching her face carefully. "My house has worn armor marked with them for generations."

Melina nodded, her expression thoughtful. She traced the air above one particular rune, following its curves without making contact. As she moved, something in her manner—the way she spoke of ancient things, the depth of knowledge in her gaze—stirred an unsettling thought in Robar's mind.

"What are you, truly?" he asked, unable to hide the tremor in his voice. "I've heard tales of women who live beyond their years... Alys Rivers, Shiera Seastar... Are you one of them? How much blood has been spilled to keep you alive for so long?"

Melina's gaze did not waver, though a shadow passed over her features. "I am not what you fear, Robar. My longevity is not born of dark rituals or the blood of innocents. But this land... it leaves its mark on all who dwell within it."

He swallowed hard, the questions piling up in his mind like stones. "And Abere... Is he like you? Is he ancient too?"

Melina shook her head gently. "No. Abere is younger than I, though he has seen his share of horrors both recent and past. His path is intertwined with mine and yours, for now."

She turned back to the armor, her hand still hovering over the runes. "A bit of an odd question," she said suddenly, her voice taking on a careful tone, "but my curiosity must be sated. In your lands, has there ever been anyone infamous for impaling? Perhaps also having an affinity for fire?"

The question caught Robar off guard. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again, The fairly recent history of the Mad King's atrocities flashed through his mind—Aerys II Targaryen, with his obsession with wildfire and his penchant for cruel executions. Then the Mountain Who Rides, his brutality had become legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms from the rebellion onward.

"I..." he began, watching Melina's expression. "In recent history, the closest might be Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King. He had an obsession with fire, took pleasure in burning people alive. And there's Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain—a monster in human form who's committed countless atrocities." He paused, considering. "But while they were monstrous in their own ways, neither was particularly known for impalement. I'm sorry, but while there are several who've tread close to the Stranger's domain in their cruelty, I can't think of anyone specifically known as an impaler."

Melina's face fell slightly, though she masked it quickly. "Ah, that's alright," she said, her voice gentle but carrying a note of disappointment. "I suppose all answers don't always come from happenstance." She stepped back, her eye lingering on the runes. "Still, there's something about these markings... They remind me of a different time, a different age."

Her words carried a fondness that made Robar wonder just what she was searching for. The way she had asked about an impaler with an affinity for fire... it seemed too specific to be mere curiosity.

"My lady," he ventured carefully, "if I may ask—why that particular question? Are you searching for someone?"

Melina's eye met his, and for a moment, Robar glimpsed something ancient and sorrowful in her gaze. "I once followed a very old trail, I abandoned the path after no fruit beared" she replied softly. "Some mysteries echo through the ages, Ser Robar. Sometimes they leave marks that survive even the passage of eons."

Her words sent a chill down Robar's spine. First Gowry with his cryptic comments about the times of Uhl, and now Melina with her questions about impalers and mysterious trails through time. He was beginning to suspect that his armor—or rather, the runes upon it—held significance beyond anything the Maesters of his days had knowledge of.

"The runes," he said slowly, "they're more than just ancient markings, aren't they? You and Gowry both... you see something in them that I don't."

A small, sad smile crossed Melina's face. "All things are connected, Ser Robar. The threads that bind your land to this one seem to be old. But perhaps it's better not to pull too hard some knots are best left tied."

Before Robar could press further, the air several paces away began to shimmer and distort. His hand instinctively went to his sword hilt as a strange golden light pierced through what seemed to be a tear in the very fabric of reality. Through this ethereal opening, Abere's form began to materialize—first his head, then shoulders, torso, and finally legs, as if he were stepping through an invisible doorway. The sight made Robar's stomach turn; it was like watching a painting being drawn in reverse, but with flesh and bone instead of paint.

Melina watched the process with an air of familiarity. "It seems our time grows short," she said softly. "Remember what I said, Ser Robar. Keep your sword sharp and your wits sharper. The Lands Between has a way of devouring those who delve too deeply."

As Abere fully materialized, gasping as if drawing his first breath, Melina's form began to fade like morning mist under a rising sun. Her final words barely reached Robar's ears: "And perhaps... be careful which knots you choose to untie."

Robar stood rooted to the spot, his mind reeling from both Melina's departure and Abere's impossible return. His eyes fell to the runes etched into his armor, seeing them now not as familiar comfort but an unsettling mystery. What ancient connections did they represent in this land? And why did Melina's question about an impaler feel so significant?

Not long after Melina's departure, Abere pushed himself to his feet, his movements stiff. His eyes darted to the mist where the whatever slayed him still lurked, fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade. "I must return, finish what's been started."

Robar stepped forward, trying to keep his voice steady despite the nauseating display of resurrection he'd just witnessed. "The needle, Abere. Gowry spoke of a girl whose life depends on it. Surely that takes precedence over pride?"

The Tarnished warrior turned to him, eyes narrowing. For a moment, Robar thought he might argue, might insist on charging back into whatever deathtrap killed him first time around. Instead, Abere gave him a long, evaluating look from head to toe, as if seeing him properly for the first time. Finally, he shrugged, a gesture that somehow managed to convey both acceptance and disappointment.

They made their way up the sloping path that cut diagonally across Selia's face, sabatons scraping against the ancient slope. Abere moved with even greater caution than prior, his recent death or whatever his impossible resurgence, seeming to stay with him. His head turning at every slight movement in the shadows.

The barrier that had once sealed their way now lay dormant, its magical energies dispersed by their efforts with the enflamed towers. Where before it had shimmered with an otherworldly light, now it was nothing more than empty air, though Robar could still feel the lingering traces of something as they passed through the threshold, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

It was then that Robar felt it—a sensation of being watched that went beyond mere paranoia. This wasn't the focused attention of hidden archers or lurking beasts. No, this feeling ran deeper, as if the very stones of Selia had eyes, as if something ancient and aware was woven into the fabric of this place itself. He found himself thinking of the godswoods back home, of the knowing gaze of the heart trees—but this was different, older perhaps, and certainly less benevolent.

Abere led them along the treacherous path, navigating between the rounds of stony assault with practiced ease. Robar followed, his armor feeling heavier with each step, the runes etched into it seeming to pulse with an unsettling warmth.

The higher they climbed, the more the air changed. What had been merely foul below now carried an acrid taste that burned the back of his throat. Wind whipped around them, bearing the harsh cries of crows that sounded wrong in ways Robar couldn't quite define. Their calls weren't the familiar caws he knew from Westeros—these were twisted, guttural things, as if the birds' very voices had been corrupted by the sickness that plagued this land.

Then, as they crested the final rise, Robar saw it—a church that seemed to have grown from the blighted earth rather than been built upon it. Its torn spire looking like bloodied teeth, its architecture an unsettling familiar religious devotion and geometry.

But it wasn't the structure that made his blood run cold. There, moving with that horrible, fluid grace he remembered all too well, were those same grotesque creatures that had first welcomed him to this cursed land. The very same guarded the church moved like a nightmarish fusion of insect and man. Chitin plates clicked against each other as they moved fluidly, catching the crimson light in nauseating patterns. Each creature stood nearly as tall as a man, but their bodies curved and twisted. Their arms far too many—ended in both delicate manipulators and blade-like appendages.

Abere struck first, rolling under a sweep of razor-sharp limbs. His blade found purchase between chitinous plates, drawing ichor that hissed where it struck the ground. The creature responded with impossible speed, its body coiling like a spring before launching itself skyward.

Robar raised his shield just as another of the horrors unleashed its signature attack—a swarm of silvery threads that cut through the air like angry wasps. The impact against his shield sent vibrations up his arm, each thread carrying enough force to chip the metal. He'd learned from their first encounter—better the shield than his flesh.

"Keep moving!" Abere shouted, dancing between the creatures' strikes. "They'll try to surround us!"

True to his warning, the monstrosities began a complex pattern of movement, their many-limbed bodies allowing them to circle while maintaining their assault. Robar fell into the rhythm of combat, his Westerosi training adapting to these otherworldly foes. Where they were fluid, he remained solid. Where they twisted, he stood firm.

The battle ended suddenly—Abere's blade taking one creature's head while Robar's sword found the vital spot between segments on another. Their bodies thrashed briefly before collapsing, limbs twitching in death.

Inside the church, decay and wear was evident. Walls, once grand, now crumbled inward like rotting teeth. Any windows present, wer gone, cast fragmented shadows across the floor littered with debris. All that remained was a statue that Robar couldn't or perhaps shouldn't comprehend.

Then he heard it—a soft weeping from the church's inner chamber. Following the sound, they found her: a woman slumped against a wall, her form frail and wasting. The sight struck a chord in Robar's memory—it reminded him of old Maester Yorwin in his final days, when the fever had taken hold. The same sunken eyes, the same labored breathing of someone fighting a losing battle with death.

He watched the golden needle in Abere's pack with new understanding. Whatever power it held would have to be potent indeed to save someone so far gone. But as he looked at the woman's suffering, he found himself hoping it would be enough even if the idea of such power disturbed him.

The woman's voice was barely more than a whisper, each word seemingly drawn from the depths of agony. "Ah...AhhNggh... Who's there?" Her flame-red hair hung limp around her face, dull and lifeless compared to the vibrant scarlet of Caelid's sky. "Well, it matters not. If you are wise, you will leave, immediately. My flesh writhes with scarlet rot. It is a curse. Not to be meddled with by man."

Abere knelt beside her, movements slow and deliberate as if approaching a wounded animal. From his pack, he withdrew the golden needle, its surface catching what little light filtered through the broken windows. The needle seemed to pulse with its own inner radiance, like a captured sunbeam.

"This needle," he began, his usual brusque tone softened to something almost gentle, "An unalloyed gold needle, designed to ward off the influence of outer gods." He held it where she could see it clearly. "The scarlet rot that consumes you—This needle can help your body reject that influence."

His fingers traced the needle's length without touching it. "Gowry says you've fought it longer than most. That takes strength. This needle... it will give you a chance to fight back properly." There was something like respect in his voice now. "But I won't lie to you—it will hurt. The process of purging such influence always does."

"You ask that I stab myself with the needle... To quell the scarlet rot?" Her voice trembled with uncertainty. "But...how?" She paused, studying their faces. "Never mind. I've decided. I would rather trust you, than simply continue to spoil from within." Her gaze met theirs briefly. "Would you mind...averting your eyes for a moment?"

Robar turned away, hearing the soft sound of the needle piercing flesh.

"Well. That was easier than expected," she breathed. "But...why do I feel so—" Her words cut off in a sudden gasp of pain.

The sound that followed would haunt Robar—a cry of pure agony as her body convulsed violently. He turned back to see her writhing on the floor, her form twisting as if trying to escape its own skin. Her flame-colored hair whipped about as she thrashed, a stark contrast to her pallid flesh.

Robar shot Abere a panicked look. Had they just made everything worse? Had they, in their attempt to help, only hastened her suffering? The Tarnished's face remained impassive, but his own tightness betrayed uncertainty.

Margaery IV

The group had stopped again, their steady march interrupted. Margaery Tyrell adjusted the corner of the makeshift bed carrying her brother, her hands brushing against the coarse fabric as she ensured his blanket was secure. The lesser knights and servants who bore the stretcher looked tired but resolute, their shoulders hunched from the weight of her brothers burden.

From her position near the middle of the column, she couldn't see what had caused the delay this time. The towering Blaidd, ever vigilant at the front, had paused. His massive frame seemed tense, his clawed hand hovering near the hilt of his sword.

Her hand instinctively went to her brother's forehead. Loras stirred faintly, his lips parting as though he might speak, but no words came. His once-vivid eyes remained closed, his once pristine hair now a disheveled mess, He had always been the Knight of Flowers, untouchable, unyielding, yet here he was—brokens, wilting.

"What is it now?" Renly muttered from a few paces ahead, his tone laced with irritation. The rest of the group murmured uneasily, knights gripping their weapons tighter.

Margaery's ears picked up a faint sound—a rustling in the underbrush to their left. It was subtle, almost too quiet to notice. She scanned the hill and treeline but saw nothing except the foreign landscape that was becoming increasingly more familiar to her. Yet, something more felt... off.

Blaidd's low growl cut through the air, silencing the group. "Stay alert," he rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. "We're not alone."

The knights tightened formation, as they readied their shields. At first there was nothing but silence. Then, without warning, a figure burst from the underbrush—, wild-eyed and ragged, clutching a rusted axe. Charing toward the group as it gave a guttural scream.

The first knight stepped forward, intercepting the attacker with a swift shield bash. The sound of metal on bone echoed as the figure crumpled to the ground. But more figures emerged from the trees tattered clothing, faces gaunt and their eyes hollow. They carried crude weapons—clubs, knives, and broken swords—movements were animalistic.

The group erupted into chaos. The knights formed a protective circle around the stretcher carrying Loras, their swords flashing as they clashed with the attackers. Margaery stepped back, her heart pounding as she watched the scene unfold. She clutched the hilt of a small dagger hidden beneath her cloak, though she knew it would be of little use against such numbers.

Blaidd moved like a force of nature, his hulking blade cleaving through the air. Each swing sent an attacker sprawling, their cries cut short by the sheer power of his strikes. Renly, to his credit, fought with practiced skill, his blade finding its mark with every thrust. Yet, despite their efforts, the attackers kept coming.

"They're desperate," Margaery murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Her gaze flicked to one of the fallen attackers— face frozen in fear. These weren't soldiers or bandits...

The skirmish ended as quickly as it had begun. The last of the attackers fell, their bodies strewn across the forest floor. The knights regrouped, their breaths heavy and their armor splattered with blood. Margaery approached one of the knights carrying Loras, checking on her brother. his chest rising and falling in a shallow rhythm still only semi conscious mumbling.

"Is everyone accounted for?" she asked, her voice strong.

"Aye, my lady," one of the knights replied tirily.

Blaidd wiped his blade clean on a fallen attacker's tunic before sheathing it. His sharp eyes scanned the treeline, his ears twitching. "We keep moving," he said curtly. "This path won't stay safe for long."

As they resumed their march, Margaery couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Once or twice, she caught a glimpse of something in the shadows—a pair of bright, nervous eyes that vanished the moment she looked their way. She said nothing, unsure if it was her imagination or something real.

As the hours passed, the landscape shifted going from open grasslands to a thicker forest with mist covering. Margaery was beginning to feel the weight of exhaustion settle over her when they came upon a figure standing atop a large disheveled building ahead.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in finery that had clearly seen better days. His posture was one of practice, a haughtiness that was unmistakable even from a distance reminding her of some of the people she came across in high garden court and her visits to old town. As they approached, he raised a hand, his expression one of relief mingled with irritation.

"Finally," he called, his voice carrying easily. "Someone with some semblance of sense in this forsaken land."

The group stopped, and Blaidd's hand immediately went to his sword. The man raised an eyebrow at the movement but otherwise ignored him, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the group. When his eyes landed on Margaery, Renly, and Catelyn, they brightened slightly.

"Ah, fellow nobility," he said, bowing shallowly. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Kenneth Haight, rightful heir to Fort Haight and a descendant of the golden lineage."

"Golden lineage?" Renly repeated, stepping forward. His expression was skeptical but curious.

Kenneth puffed out his chest, his pride practically radiating from him. "Indeed! Unlike that upstart Godrick, my ties to the golden lineage are far more direct. He may claim to rule these lands, but he is little more than a country bumpkin playing at lordship."

Catelyn exchanged a glance with Margaery, her lips twitching into a faint smile. It was almost a relief to hear such familiar arrogance in this strange land, even if Kenneth's attitude grated on their nerves.

"And yet," Margaery said smoothly, "you seem to be in need of assistance."

Kenneth's expression soured briefly before he recovered. "Yes, well... the fort has been overrun by foul creatures—some crazed blood obsessed fools. I would reclaim it myself, of course, but alas, my forces are... depleted."

Renly's expression turned wry. "A noble asking for help? How refreshing."

Kenneth ignored the jab, his attention turning to Blaidd. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the wolf knight's imposing figure. "You... I've heard of you. You serve House Caria, do you not?"

Blaidd's response was a low, noncommittal growl, his visible eye narrowing. Kenneth seemed unfazed, continuing, "Well, no matter. If you and your companions would assist me, I would be most grateful. The blood of Godwin does not forget."

The group exchanged looks, the decision hanging in the air. Margaery's gaze lingered on Blaidd, her mind already calculating the potential benefits and risks of this new knowledge and Kenneth's plight. Whatever lay ahead, it seemed their journey was about to become even more complicated.

A.N.

Hey everyone! It's been a bit longer than I intended for this update. Classes have been hitting hard this semester. Despite putting in a lot of effort, I've been struggling more than usual to keep up. On top of that, focusing on reading or writing stories has been tougher lately. Thankfully, this past week I managed to get back into the groove, and I'm really excited to share this chapter with you all.

This time, we have some character interactions that you might not have expected this early on. I've done my best to capture these characters accurately, and I hope I've done them justice. I'd love to hear your thoughts—did anything surprise you?

As for other stories, I'm aiming to get another out for my Lost and From Fic during the break, and at least get another chapter started for this though I can't make any promises for early December. What Icanpromise is another chapter by the end of December at the latest. I'm really trying to stick to a monthly (or more frequent!) update schedule for this story.

We're finally getting into the heart of things now, and I can't wait to hear your theories and speculations. As always, thanks for reading and for your support it means a lot to me, and motivates me to continue.